Dead Men Walking
by Waltz-of-the-Dead
Summary: Dying is actually pleasant. It is painless. Death is the end of pain. Rich the treasure, sweet the pleasure after pain. Death is a pleasure. Slight Gin/Ed nothing to graphic. Enjoy and Please review. I don't own the Boondocks, Gin, or Ed III


Dead Men Walking

Authors Note. Gin/Ed there is hints of slash but nothing to racy. I was in a gothic mood that and I just finished a book about Vietnam so I decided to write this ficlet.

_**Dying is actually pleasant. It is painless. Death is the end of pain. Rich the treasure, sweet the pleasure after pain. Death is a pleasure**_

A dull roar tapered into a shrill shriek that tore through the darkness abruptly ending in a spit of fire, sand, and bloody screams.

Sweat trickled down his back, and crept into his eyes making them sting. His heart felt like it was trying to rip its self from his chest and crawl up his throat.

"IN COMING!"

The ground seemed to heave up like it was drawing in a deep breath, carelessly tossing him forward, pitiful little insect how dare you trespass on this sacred ground. Earth that the Crusader stood on, spilled blood on and lost.

Bullets sprayed the sand inches from his face, whipping past him so close that he could feel their heat against his flesh

Amidst the chaos and shrapnel, the ragged voice of his general could be heard screaming against the chaos of hell, screaming for corpsmen to aid the wounded, raging for Raziel to carry away the dying.

He crawled though the darkness, through cool sand now slick and sticky with blood, a flare suddenly went up briefly illuminating the carnage in an ethereal, hellish orange glow.

His hand struck something sinking into a soft, warm, mass wet and smelling of gore, his fingers brushing against something that might have once been teeth, or the back of a skull. He recoiled almost standing in his disgust a fractured scream twisting up his throat sealed by his clenched teeth.

Bile rose acrid and burning into his mouth mixing with his terror and grief.

Shivering he slide around the mangled corpse of his fellow S.O.F..

Somewhere dragging its self though the darkness clutching at the threads of time came the violent voice of his drill sergeant bellowing in his face,

"You are the elite assassins, operating under principles of self-sufficiency, stealth, speed, and close teamwork"

But what happens then, when your team mate gets blown to bits, gets his face torn off, gets his brains spattered and guts sprayed across the sand…what then…what then you motherfucker?

He had learned the cruel lesson of war, that death trumps everything, no matter hard you train. No one is swifter then death, you can not out stealth his scythe, you can't hide from him when he is looking at you through a scope, waiting, waiting for you to fuck up.

Frantic from the moans of the wounded, frenzied from his own thoughts and delirious with the sickening perfume of seared flesh he pushed forward.

Another explosion roiled though the ground throwing him forward leaving him shaken and cursing. He couldn't keep moving forward slithering on his belly, he would have to run else he would be pinned down in the crossfire.

For a moment, the earth seemed to go quiet, filled with the silent dread that steals the very life from a soldier and leaves him with his eyes shut tight against the horror.

Then he was up and running, staggering through the darkness weaving back and forth, dodging bullets, leaping over bodies of men that were not men but just bloody piles of ragged uniforms.

Another flare arched against the sky and in its seething glow he could see the smoldering ruins of a building and the gaping darkness of a line of fox holes along its parameter, bracing him self he prepared to dive forward, into the ground, deaths sanctuary.

But something must have happened, he must have tripped and fallen because his face was pressed to the sand and there was this tepid warmth spreading from his belly to his thighs. He rose to his knees then his feet, wondering why the ground seemed to tilt up and meet him.

This time he didn't get up, but was content to lay there, his nose inhaling the ancient smell of death and fresh blood.

The deadly waltz of bullets and battle continued spinning around him, dissolving with each breath he drew in, fading with every beat of his heart. Everything became slow and lucid, much like being caught in the throes of passion, except he was captured by the bloody kiss of war.

When was the last time he had been kissed anyway?

When had been the last time he had lain clasped against the body of another?

He couldn't remember, remembering took to much effort. Memory hurt him, he knew that, memory brought anguished.

Ah, well it didn't matter now; he was finally going to be able to get some well needed sleep. He hoped that his sergeant wouldn't be too pissed for leaving watch, maybe this would get him discharged and he would be able to go back to Woodcrest, back to Ed, back home. Ed was home, Ed was life, warmth, and love.

Ed...lover...his lover! That's who he had kissed last...

But no...that wasn't right...Ed had been killed, he had been shot and bled to death in his arms. So why did he want to go back to Woodcrest, there was nothing for him there...

Nothing...a memory lurched against his skull,

_"Hey don't worry Ed, I aint gonna let nuthin happen ta you I promise,"_

Lair, lair, LAIR!

That's when the pain came, it was not physical, but it was an agony that gouged his soul leaving behind a raw wound that could only be felt with the loss of someone so precious it makes every second with out them a continuous torture. Ed's dog tags flared against his chest, branding him, reminding him that he had broken his promise and now he was broken, shattered by the same bullets that had taken Ed.

The ground shuttered beneath him again, burdened with the weight of the dead. Bullets sang over his head, showing him with sand clotted with his own blood. The distant thud of mines began to meld with him, became a part of him until he was not certain if it was explosions or his own weak heartbeat that was pounding in his ears. A thick, metallic taste was swelling against his throat, filling his mouth was and dribbling from between his lips.

He closed his eyes against the glow of flares and the shimmering fire that spouted from the ends of machine guns. Was it tears making everything dance and glimmer or just his own blood leaking down his face?

He drew in a deep breath, muttering to his own essence, to his own soul, to the heavens and all its angelic listeners.

"Forgive me...forgive me,"

Please do not forsaken me...

He grit his teeth to weak to sob, to tired to weep, so his grief spilled from his eyes unaided, the quiet tears of the dying. He sucked in another breath his soul pushing against his ribs, and everything stilled.

Through the blurred darkness came something he knew, the scent of cologne, expensive, sensual and familiar. And someone was picking him up, forcing him to stand tugging him away from his wounds, relieving him of his soaked, blood heavy flak jacket, stripping him of his grenades, and the pounds of gear that had punished his body for so long.

A light kiss was pressed to his lips, and his vision focused so that he was staring into green eyes that he had seen dulled in death. They were alive now, dancing with the fire that he knew so well,

"Rummy m'man why you lying on the damn ground for, get up, s'time ta go."


End file.
